“I put it on ice. It’s as alive as can be, beating steadily even with no blood to pump.”
“And the Sentinel?”
It felt strange to say his name. Stranger, because that name had remained a number. She should’ve asked him a name he remembered. Since his creation, something must’ve been on the tip of his tongue. Something he would’ve liked to be called.
“I will wrap him up. Do you want to leave him here, or…”
“We’ll take him with us. He deserves a proper burial, but the earth is frozen. The convent has a dead house.”
“I don’t think the nuns will agree his parts, taken individually, deserve a grave on sacred ground.”
“No, you’re right. But him as a whole…”
Idris sighed and shook his head, too tired to get into a philosophical debate.
“We’ll figure it out when we get there,” Seraphina said.
He walked with her to the house, got her into bed, and threw more logs in the hearth before going back to the mill to finish cleaning up. An hour later, he returned.
In the weak candlelight, Seraphina noticed how old he seemed. He’d aged years in the span of a few hours. He turned to her, scalpel in hand. She got up and removed her dress. Pulled her shift up to expose her ribs.
She gave him the vomer bone.
It was a simple procedure.
Chapter Sixteen
To be needed so fully by someone, to cry and be heard, to be caught and held firmly.
The track had been climbing for an hour. Briar rode ahead on Rose, and Rune followed on Nettle. It was dark, so they were going slow. Bare beech and oak lined the path in between firs burdened by snow. They hadn’t passed a house since the river crossing.
Rune kept low over the horse’s neck, his hood pulled forward. Briar was exhausted. They’d ridden all day, with few and too short breaks, and she’d pushed Rose more than she should’ve, but she hadn’t wanted to spend another night away from home. She was too close to think rationally anymore. All she wanted was a hot meal and to burrow under the covers of her own bed, in her cramped but familiar and beloved room. She was cold, miserable, and pretty sure the Hearthband was broken. Maybe she’d gotten it wet and hadn’t noticed. Since the lake, it hadn’t been reliable.
The road got worse toward the end, but it finally brought them up to the wall of the convent, high and built from gray stone. Behind it, a steep roof rose up, and above the roof stood two towers. Her eyes trailed higher up the slope, where the firs thinned toward the top of the hill, but it was too dark to see the squat building that stood there. She guided Rose toward the gate.
Briar swung down. Her legs had gone stiff from the cold and the long ride. She pulled at the cord to ring the bell, but it came loose in her hand. No sound emerged. With a sigh, she put her fist to the wood and slammed hard, hoping someone would hear her. Rune joined her, clumsily finding his way with his walking stick. A few minutes passed without the sound of crunching footsteps approaching. Briar banged again.
“Do you want me to do it?” Rune asked.
She chuckled. “You’ll break the gate.”
She kept at it until her hand was sore and her patience gone, and then at last they heard shuffling feet and the jangle of keys.
“Who is there? We don’t receive visitors after nightfall.”
Briar recognized the nun’s voice.
“Sister Magdalena, it’s me. Briar.”
The panel slid back, and a middle-aged face appeared behind the grille, illuminated by a lamp. The woman’s dark eyes went wide, and she fumbled with the keys. The gate creaked open, but when Sister Magdalena saw the tall, massive, dark shadow standing behind Briar, she hesitated and didn’t open all the way. She angled her body so that no one could enter without having to trample her first.
“That is not Seraphina,” she said.
“No. It’s someone better,” said Briar. Her voice wavered as she suddenly realized this might not be as easy as she’d imagined. “Sister Magdalena, this man’s name is Rune. He is… a master weaver.”
The woman touched her chest and shook her head.
“You know the rules. We don’t let men in after nightfall.” She made to close the gate.
